


Young Stan-x-malereader: Gang Rules

by loopy_lupita23



Series: StanxColumbian Bartender [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Reader-Insert, Spanish Translation, forced blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loopy_lupita23/pseuds/loopy_lupita23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alrighty, so this is an idea I’ve had for a while. I really like that Stan has given us a glimpse of his life as a delinquent and even more that Alex Hirsch has given us hints of Stan being Bi, so I’ve decided to utilize both these points in this fic. BUT! Before you read any further, please read these trigger warnings.</p>
<p>Warning: This fic contains homophobia, anal sex, violence, non-consent blow job, angst and roughly translated Spanish. If any of these bother you and you continue to read anyways, you have been warned so don’t complain to me.</p>
<p>There, I think I’ve got all my bases covered. If you’re still around this story takes place when Stan is in Columbia, enjoy! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young Stan-x-malereader: Gang Rules

**Young Stan-x-malereader: Gang Rules**

A/N: Alrighty, so this is an idea I’ve had for a while. I really like that Stan has given us a glimpse of his life as a delinquent and even more that Alex Hirsch has given us hints of Stan being Bi, so I’ve decided to utilize both these points in this fic. BUT! Before you read any further, please read these trigger warnings.

**Warning: This fic contains homophobia, anal sex, violence, non-consent blow job, angst and roughly translated Spanish. If any of these bother you and you continue to read anyways, you have been warned so don’t complain to me.**

There, I think I’ve got all my bases covered. If you’re still around this story takes place when Stan is in Columbia, enjoy! :)

*El Odio- The Hatred

-

“ **Get him!** ” a particularly loud voice screams in the mob, but Stan doesn’t look back as he keeps running, puffing his shaggy hair out of his face.

_Shit. Shouldn’t’ve parked the Stan-mobile so far this time._ He thinks bitterly as he approaches the docks.

His options are thin, the crowd thinks that they have him cornered but they fail to estimate just how much of a wild card Stanley Pines really is.

He scans the dock for the biggest ship in port that looks like it’s about to leave, the throng of his dissatisfied customers still on his tail.

A cruise liner blows its horn and Stan see his meal ticket. He smirks and picks up his pace. With a running start he jumps as far into the water as he can. The cold of the ocean bites at his flesh and weighs down his clothes but he pays no mind, gritting his teeth as he swims to anchor still in port.

“Oh you _gotta_ be kidding me!” A voice exclaims from the dock.

Stan assumes it’s the leader of his mob and grins a bit to himself as he reaches the anchor and begins to climb up.

_Like a rope in gym class._ He thinks snidely as he reaches the top.

With his escape secure he turns back to the dock and gives a smug salute, much to the outrage of his would-be captures. “Thanks fer trustin’ Stan-co ya suckers!” he bellows once he’s able to hoist himself up on the ship deck.

He puts a hand to his ear, hoping to hear more screams from the swarm of people after his head. It’s faint but he can make out a few obscenities.

Laughing to himself, he proceeds to the lowest level of the deck. The trick to hitching a ride with a mode of transportation you didn’t pay for is going unnoticed. The best place for him would be in the storage area.

Lady Luck must be hot for Stan today because he makes it to the bottom deck, avoiding every employee and security measure in place to keep out people like him.

Once his safely in the storage area Stan shrugs off the over coat of his bright red suit and wrings it out with a sigh. “Well, guess I’ll have ta cross Florida off my map…if I ever make it to the Stan-mobile again.”

Frowning, he sits on a crate, leaning his back against the moving ship. Sure the car was a piece of junk but it’s all he’s ever really owned, especially lately. The car had his back when no one in this crummy world did, helped him escape a hell a lot worse than some angry Florida home-owners.

He closes his eyes at the thought of another loss, the pain of it oddly heavy as it sinks in. After all, he’s had that car since this whole mess started and before that. Back when life was good. Back when he had a family, a home…a brother.

Scowling, Stan pushes off the ship and lays on his side. “Awh shuddup brain. Can’t I enjoy a perfect escape for once? Geez.” He grumbles as he closes his eyes.

As he lays on the hard surface he briefly wonders where this ship is heading.

-

**2 years later: Coveñas Colombia**

You open the bar at the crack of dawn, yawning a little to yourself as enter. You go through the morning set up. Putting all the chairs down, plugging in the video games and pinball machines, straightening up the pool area, leaving plenty of chalk for the sticks and so on.

Once the place is set you mosey back to behind the bar and tie on your apron before pulling out your stool and sitting. Behind the register you have a little mirror.

_Ugh, why can’t I ever look decent?_ You think, pulling out a comb from your pocket.

You rake it through your hair a few times then look closely at your face. You were never very good at growing facial hair, a bit embarrassing really. This fact always left you with a bit of a baby-face and snide remarks wondering if you were a man or a child.

Scowling at yourself, you turn away from the mirror and reach under the bar to retrieve your paper with the crosswords.

Now the day officially starts.

No one ever comes in this early, but * _El Odio_ members insist the bar be open for their…purposes. The things they use the back room of the bar for are better left unsaid and unseen by you.

Your family owns this bar, or at least they did at one point but with the gang, _El Odio_ , getting more power, they started to make plays on territory some years back, when you were just a small child.

Alejandro, your idiot older brother, thought the power they were gaining was too much of a threat. He decided it was better to be a part of _El Odio_ than against it and with your parents growing older, he is the head of the house.

He offered them the bar and then some in exchange for protection of the family. You personally felt there were other options that could have be taken, but it wasn’t your place to say.

So now, here you sit, holding down the fort of a gang spot.

You certainly aren’t a member of their ranks but its part of their arrangement that a non-member works the bar in case any police come snooping around. Alejandro, is another story however.

_El Odio_ are so impressed with him that he’s been climbing up the ranks. A charter head last you heard, but you make it a point not to find out details. What your brother does for those thugs is also best left a mystery to you.

You stare at the counter top, not really able to focus on your puzzle now, when suddenly the front door opens.

Immediately you look up, ready to greet and instruct members on where the room is just as you were told to do.

However, it’s not a member who has entered the bar.

The man isn’t wearing any gang tags. He’s white, with broad shoulders, glasses, long shaggy brown hair and a little bit of a belly with ragged looking clothes.

You frown a little, unsure how to approach this situation. The locals all know never to enter this place unless they have a date with death or a deal to be made with _El Odio_ and tourists were all told to avoid this part of town anyways.

_Maybe he’s a drunk and stumbled to a bar not realizing which one this is._ You think to yourself.

You clear your throat. “Lo siento señor, el bar está cerrado (Sorry sir, the bar is closed).”

The man stops his hunched walk. He looks at you briefly then at the door then back to you. A small sneer comes to his face. “Closed huh? Well, your sign over there says different.”

His accent doesn’t sound like any you’ve ever heard. Must be American. You roll your eyes. “¿Hablas español (Do you speak Spanish)?” you ask dryly.

He shakes his head. “Not fluently but I’m gettin’ better. I understand some of the words when I hear ‘em and see ‘em.”

You snort and shake your head. Your English isn’t the best, but at least you can say television is good for something.

“Sir…this, place is not where you want. Gang do work here.” You say, putting extra thought into how to word the dangerous nature of this bar.

He smirks and pulls up a bar stool in front of you. “Yeah, that’s what Rico said. El Oo-dee-o right?”

You blink in surprise. “Urm…yes. You, have work, for them?”

The man shrugs. “Just got out of the joint. A cell mate of mine told me they could put me to use without me having to be a member. Figure if I mule for them for a bit I can get some cash to start up my own thing.”

You nod slowly. This man wouldn’t be the first to come to _El Odio_ like this. They often got drifters and homeless to push their ‘product’.

The two of you sit in silence for a while after his intention is established. The man fold up the glasses and puts them in the pocket of his jacket.

You eye him wearily. “¿No-” you pause, trying to get your brain to remember the English words. “I mean, you, need see?”

He looks up, surprised you’re speaking to him apparently. He shrugs again and pulls out the glasses. “Nah, they don’t even have lenses, see? I just change my look a lot and last Rico saw me I had ‘em. Figured if he was the one I was dealing with I should wear ‘em but from what it looks like I might be working with other people.”

You nod again. “Oh.”

Silence once more resumes.

This is so odd for you. Normally the people who come here have more fear and are by far less friendly than this man. He pulled up bar stool right in front of you for crying out loud! They never do that.

Generally, when someone comes in to see the gang and they’re early they sit in the farthest corner and wait, panic lining their faces as you’re sure they’re rethinking their decision to come here.

But not this man.

_Maybe he doesn’t know what he’s getting into._ You think to yourself.

You decide to find out, after all, the man is talking to you easily enough. You clear your throat. “You uh, you know _El Odio_ is, yes? Bad men. They do…bad things.” You say cautiously.

The man smiles sadly with a light chuckle. “Yeah, I know all 'bout the gang. They had a few of their people in jail. The name was like a two sided sword. On the one hand no one messed with ya, but then there was the rival gangs in there always taking swings at ‘em. I don’t wanna join their rank or anything but I need the cash. ‘Case you couldn’t tell, I’m not from around here. I don’t have nothin’ to call my own. This is just a startin' stone ya know? Sometimes ya gotta make a deal with the devil to make yer way. Wouldn’t be the first time for me.”

You mull over his words, not understanding all of them but getting the gist of what he is saying.

Alejandro had that same attitude, that same, sad smile. It’s a little heart wrenching when you think about it. Just how many people are pushed into this by circumstance? Pity surfaces in your heart as you examine the man.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Early is now but…would you like drink? On the house.”

He glances up from his hands at you.

You hadn’t noticed when he first entered but his face is unshaven over that strong jawline and his eyes, they’re the brightest brown you’ve ever seen. It causes the air to catch in your throat when he makes eye contact with you.

He returns your smile and nods his head. “Ah why not? I’m in a bar after all, right?”

When he speaks it’s the kick start you need to break away from him. You laugh weakly as your mentally kick yourself. _Oh come on, don’t be stupid._

You grab a beer bottle and pop off the top before sliding it over to the stranger. He catches it with one hand and holds it up to you in a small cheers before swinging it down.

Despite yourself, you watch him with fascination. He’s sort of handsome, in an exotic sort of way. His skin is a dark pale, with little patches of red around his neck. He must not tan well. His hands are large and look a bit dry, you brief wonder what it would feel like to touch them.

You roll your eyes at yourself.

It’s been too long since you’ve had a friendly conversation, now you’re just trying to make it something that it’s not. He is a stranger after all. You frown a little to yourself.

Perhaps it's just the conversation, or maybe the circumstance that brought him here, but you find you don’t want him to be a stranger. He’s got such a pleasantness to him.

As he finishes his beer, you casually ask him his name.

He sets the bottle down gently. “Call me Stan. And you?”

You open your mouth to tell him your name when the door bursts open.

“¡Hola maricón (Hello faggot)!” The loud voice of Miguel laughs.

You wince at the name and quickly take Stan’s empty bottle away before returning to your post.

He saunters in with a crew of three behind him, a large smile on his face. “Esperamos un poco de carne nueva (We’re expecting some new meat)-”

“Si, esta aqui (Yes, he’s here).” You say quickly, gesturing to Stan.

You flinch when Miguel’s hand suddenly slams on the bar top. His smile is gone as he growls at you. “¡No vuelvas a interrumpirme maricón (Do not ever interrupt me faggot)!”

Nodding shakily you return your gaze to the floor where it belongs. Satisfied with your obedience, he turns to Stan. You chance a glance up to see the American does _not_ look pleased.

Miguel seems to take no notice to his expression as the somewhat manic grin returns to his face. “¡Así! ¿Usted es el único que menciona Rico? (So! You're the only one who mentions Rico?)”

“Yeah. We were cellmates. Said I could get a good pay load with you guys if I mentioned him.” Stan says gruffly, much less friendly a tone than he used with you.

Miguel nods and slings an arm over Stan’s shoulder. “Ah, sí, sí . Rico es un querido amigo mío. Ven, vamos a ver si podemos liarte (Ah, yes, yes. Rico is a dear friend of mine. Come, let’s see if we can hook you up).”

Stan looks like he wants to pull away from Miguel, but wisely, he does not and allows himself to be led to the back room.

You wait until the door is closed before looking up fully. A heavy sigh draws from your lips as you look at the door.

_Stan._

The name rings in your mind. It’s nice. Simple. You hope he’ll make it out ok. Sometimes these first meetings were the last if Miguel didn’t like you.

-

It’s hours before Stan emerges with Miguel at his side. He doesn’t appear to be damaged in any way and Miguel is smiling. You let out a small sigh of relief.

“¡Bien! Así que vienes aquí a deliever los bienes y aquí es donde vamos a dar más (All right! So you come here to deliver the goods and here is where we will give you more).” Miguel says jovially as they enter the bar.

Stan nods. “You got it boss.”

Miguel laughs and give Stan’s shoulders a shake. “¡Excelente! Sí, creo que va a hacer muy bien con nuestro equipo (Excellent! Yes, I think he will do very well with our team).” He calls to the men behind them.

He snaps his fingers and the crew follow him to the door. Miguel waves over his shoulder. “Adiós. Reunirse con nosotros aquí esta noche para su primer paquete (Later. Meet us here tonight for your first package).”

Miguel does not see Stan nod, though he does turn to you and wave mockingly delicate. “Adiós ma~rico~n (goodbye faggot).” he sings.

His squad join him in a laugh as they leave the bar.

When the door is shut, Stan takes a seat in front of you once again. He doesn’t meet your eye but you can see his hands are shaking.

You reach under the bar and pull out a beer. Popping the top you place it tentatively by Stan’s hands.

He glances up at you and wordlessly conveys his gratitude before taking the alcohol in hand. It seems to calm his nerves as he drinks. His shoulders relax and the shaking ceases in his hands.

You allow him the reprieve to get himself together. Only once had you, personally, been in the back room and when you’re surrounded by four guys with guns to your head listening to their demands, it’s a bit frightening.

When he’s calmer Stan speaks, his voice soft. “What a creep that guy is huh?”

Your eyes widen as you shush him and look around. “Mustn’t say things about Miguel, never know who can hear. Him leader of area, his word can have bar burn to ground.”

Stan waves you off. “Relax, I won’t say any more than that.”

You shrug, apologetic for the overreaction, and a comfortable silence comes between you.

You try not to blatantly stare at Stan as he plays with the label of his beer. He is quite handsome.

“So,” he says suddenly. “Your name. Mary-con was it?”

Involuntarily your teeth clench as you look away from him, hugging your arms. “Please, do not call me that. Not my name. In English, it is…gay. Not a good word.”

Alarmed, Stan gets up from the bar and holds his hands up defensively. “Oh shit. Hey man, I-I’m really sorry. I-”

You shrug, still finding it hard to look up at him. “Is fine. You did not know.” You mumble self-consciously.

Stan rubs the back of his head. “Ah geez. Way to shove yer foot in your mouth Stan.” He mutters.

At that you look up, perplexed. That was a strange thing to say. “Huh?”

Stan shakes his head. “Nothing. Just an expression. It’s when you say something unintentionally bad. They call it ‘putting your foot in your mouth’.”

You blink. What an odd language English is.

Abruptly Stan reaches across the bar and puts a hand on your shoulder. “Look I’m sorry. I won’t make that mistake again. Tell me yer name and I’ll try to make it up to ya somehow.”

Your stupid heart is beating so loudly at the contact you wonder if Stan can hear it. Shyly your name leaves your lips.

Stan repeats it with a smile. “Ok. I’ll see ya around then. Sorry again, thanks for the beer.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your shoulder as he turns to the door. You watch him leave with a little tinge of sadness in your heart but as the door closes you shake your head at yourself.

_I really am a faggot._ You think bitterly.

-

The months go by and more often than not Stan comes to the bar. Sometimes for work, other times just to talk with you; slowly teaching you a bit more English and you return the favor by teaching him a bit of Spanish.

He says he’s never been good at making friends though you can’t imagine how that’s possible. Stan is so charming and funny. He says “you’re the only good person I know ‘round here.”

A sentiment that makes you glow with pride and is certainly mutual for you. Often all you have for company is your family. It’s no secret where you work and who you are, so normal people avoid you, afraid of invoking _El Odio_ just by being seen with you.

It’s been so long since you’ve had anyone you could call a friend and Stan is just so…wonderful.

He always comes when the bar is empty if he’s coming to see you. He says he prefers the rest of the gang not know that he enjoys your company.

You understand this. Anyone seen talking to you longer than to order a drink gets made fun of by the other members.

It hurts, though you tell yourself it shouldn’t. They’re no good anyways, who cares what they think of you? But even still, being treated with such disdain can be wearing, even if it is by bad people.

You shake your head of the thought as Stan has entered the bar. Its past closing but you’re still cleaning up. “Hola Stan.” You say cheerfully.

Stan seems a little melancholy as he approaches the bar. He says your name with a smile, though it falls when he sits.

You frown. “Why so glum?”

He shrugs. “Eh, it’s nothing big just…well, today's my birthday and-”

Excitedly, you cut him off with a yell. “¡¿Tu cumpleaños (you’re birthday)?! That great! Wait here.” You turn back to the bar.

This really is a special night and in celebration you pull out a bottle of the best tequila you have.

“Oh no, I can’t afford that.” Stan says when you bring it out.

You grin as you uncork the bottle. “I will take from salary. Come on! A toast to your life!”

Stan scoffs. “No one’s ever said my life was worthwhile, I’m kinda seen more as a waste of space ya know.”

You slap his arm. “Not here you are. There, drink to your health!”

He takes the shot glass you poured and raises it in cheers before shooting it down. You laugh out loud as he coughs. “Holy hell!” he wheezes, his face turning red. “That shit is _strong_.”

You put a shaker of salt and a lime wedge on the table before pouring yourself a shot. You suck a bit on the lime before downing your shot. You cough a little as well, though not as splendidly as Stan did.

Taking your lead, Stan tries again with another shoot, this time humming as he finishes it down.

“So, how old you?” you ask lightly.

He stops shaking a little salt on his hand and looks at you jokingly. “Isn’t it rude to ask someone their age?”

You shrug. “Only if you are la dama (a lady).”

Stan laughs before licking up the salt and taking his shot.

He never answers your question as the night goes on, but you don’t really mind. Stan’s a fun guy to be around. He’s got such interesting stories and funny jokes.

But as the bottle dwindles you notice a small change in his demeanor. Before he seemed so sad, now he’s smiling, but not in the normal way. His smile is more free and direct, his hands occasionally brush against your own and he doesn’t withdraw when it happens.

It might be the booze, but you think he may be flirting with you. The thought is one you push away as wistful thinking until,

You shake some salt onto the back of your hand when suddenly Stan takes your wrist. You shiver as he licks the salt from you hand slowly and steals your shot.

When he’s downed the drink he grins at you, pushing himself up on the bar so he’s right in your face. Those dazzling brown eyes are hazy and half closed.

“Y-ya know, yer the, (hic), n-n-nicest, a person’s been ta me in-ina looong time.” He says softly.

You try to respond but your tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of your mouth. The grin on his face somehow widens as he leans closer. “Real cute too.” He slurs before sloppily pressing his lips to yours.

It’s an awkward angle he’s taken to kiss you. You try to return it but bracing yourself on the bar is hurting too much so you pull away from him.

Giggling a little, you put the cork back on the nearly empty bottle of tequila. “Yea-you, _drunk_ , St-Stan.” You mumble.

As you put the bottle back and gather the glasses and the sides, Stan continues to lift himself up on the bar, staggering as he climbs over it.

You laugh at his attempts once you’ve got everything put away but your laughter ceases when he’s gathered his bearings and makes his way towards you with intent.

You don’t expect to hit the wall so hard when he pushes you up against it. Your head is swimming and you don’t know if it’s from the contact with the wall or the heavy kiss Stan has forced upon you.

Dizzily, you close your eyes and wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer. The scruff on his chin scratches pleasantly into your cheek. Drool runs down the edges of your mouth as your lips smack against his nosily.

It’s not the most romantic kiss, considering how drunk the two of you are but you love it all the same. It’s been so long.

Stan pulls away from your lips, but only enough to speak. His breath is heavy with tequila. “Come on.” He whispers huskily.

The trip out of the bar is a whirlwind. You’re not even sure you locked up as you leave. It’s dark but Stan seems to know where to go so you lean on him.

The two of you laugh a little as you stumble into the night. You blink and suddenly you’re inside a small motel room.

_When did we get here?_ You wonder briefly before Stan is on you again.

His lips are hard as he grips the sides of your face. You hum against his mouth, tangling your hands in his messy hair. He’s slowly moving you backwards until the back of your knees hit the corner of the bed.

You bend and lay back on the bed, pulling Stan on top of you. He pulls his lips away from yours, panting heavily as he looks into your eyes.

You feel like you could drown in the pools of honey brown that are Stan’s eyes. His pupils are blown and his cheeks have the lightest hue of pink. You twist your hands in his hair. “Guapo (handsome/hot),” You whisper, pushing up on the bed a little to kiss the small exposure of his neck.

His skin is salty and leaves a tingle on your tongue. He groans softly and begins to shrug off his coat, trying not to break the contact of your mouth with his neck. His noises seem to be wired straight to your hardening cock.

As you leave soft love-bites on his neck Stan nips at your earlobe, breathing soft words of encouragement. He grinds his hips down on you inadvertently. You whine as you feel his erection. Hastily, you sit up.

Confusion crosses Stan’s face as he now straddles your lap but you don’t answer him, instead working to get his shirt off and once it’s off you latch your mouth to his collarbone. Sucking and biting, you mark his hairy chest.

Stan groans your name, bunching your shirt up in his hands and up you back as he pulls you closer. You run your tongue over one of his taunt nipples before sucking it into your mouth.

He gasps sharply and pulls away, taking the shirt off your back as he does. Stan takes advantage of your daze and pushes you back on the bed. He runs a hand over your bare chest and you feel a flush of shame. You’re not the most handsome guy around, you certainly don’t work out or anything but Stan doesn’t seem to care.

He crashes down on you with another kiss. The kisses become hot and desperate as Stan pulls at your belt, trying hard to undo your pants with one hand. You smile into the kiss, entwining your tongue with his as you reach a hand down to assist him.

Once the buttons are undone you lift your hips and in a fluid motion he pulls down your pants and underwear. Your cock is flat against your stomach once it is freed from the confines of clothing.

Stan pulls away from your lips, kissing and sucking down your chest, moving more to the floor than the bed. His kiss just above you bellybutton and-

You let out a shrill moan as Stan licks your dick from top to bottom. You feel a huff of air against your privates as he chuckles deeply. At first that’s all he does, licking the underside and head of your cock, his hands rubbing your thighs.

You rock your hips to meet his tongue. “Ay Dios…tan bueno (Oh God, so good)!” you gasp breathily. It’s been far too long since you’ve felt such intimacy.

Stan smirks before taking you fully into his mouth. Inadvertently you tighten your thighs around his head, a tight whine drawing from your throat.

He lightly pushes them back so he can have some room as he begins bobbing his head. You toss your head back heavily. You don’t want it to end, but you’re so close, it’s been too long. No. No it’s just started, it can’t end so quickly.

With as much strength as you can muster, you push Stan’s shoulders back. He pulls off your dick, a loud ‘pop’ accompanying the action. You groan at the sight of him, his lips so pink and a little drool trailing down his chin. So hot.

But you shake your head a little, needing to clear your mind to remember English. “I w-want…ay, cómo se dice (oh, how do you say) urm…sex, with you?”

The grin of surprised joy that comes to Stan’s face is contagious as he stands from the floor. “Yeah uh, sure. I mean, if you want.”

You nod vigorously and scoot up on the bed, beckoning him forward. Stan shucks off his pants and underwear quickly and crawls on the bed to join you.

He starts kiss you once more, though less hungry and more…sweetly. Light kisses that bring a smile to your lips as he rubs his cheek to yours in between the kissing. A hand of his reaches to the drawer at the bedside.

You move your hands to his back as he searches for what he needs, your fingers digging into his muscles, enjoying the tight feel of them as he moves.

You don’t need to see to know he’s lubricating his fingers, it’s good that he’s so prepared. You can’t remember the last time you were with another person like this, you’re certainly not prepared, not even when you feel that first slick finger sliding up your backside.

You take a deep breath through your nose, forcing your body to relax.

“That’s it,” Stan coos. “Just relax…”

His finger circles the tight ring of your anus then push tentatively to start. It’s not completely painful, more uncomfortable than anything. You level your breathing, forcing yourself to ease around his finger.

He maneuvers the digit in and out of you before slowly adding a second. It’s become a lot more comfortable as he adds more lube and a third. You press down against him. Stan moves his fingers, effectively stretching you before withdrawing them completely.

You lay spread completely before him, your eyes closed as you pant lightly. He’s kneeling over you, lubing himself no doubt but when he doesn’t make another move you crack open an eye.

Stan is staring at you in an almost awed fashion. “Damn…” he whispers.

Despite yourself, a smile creeps to your face. You tilt your chin, beckoning him forward. “Vamos (come on).” Your voice is husky with lust.

With something akin to a growl Stan pounces back on you, kissing you avidly, first on your lips then moving to your neck. You grab the back of his head, fisting your hand in his hair as he bites your flesh, you push insistently up against him. “Ah~hh! ¡A-a-apurarse (hurry up)!”

A gruff chuckle leaves him. “Impatient one ain’t ya?”

You respond by wrapping your legs around his waist. Grinning, he takes your hips in hand and once he does you relax your legs and plant your feet on the mattress, lifting yourself up a little as he angles his cock to your entrance.

You close your eyes as you feel the head of his cock pushing inside of you. You breathe heavily through your nose, unsure if it hurts due to how long it’s been for you or if Stan is just that big.

Not even fully in, Stan stops when a pained cry escapes you.

“You ok? Want me ta stop?” he pants, concern outweighing the pleasure in his eyes.

You shake your head, “No, no, I…” you take a deep breath and push forward a little bit. “Maybe more lube. Por favor, no pare (please, don’t stop).”

Hesitantly, Stan proceeds, his hands now light on your hips as he does as you say, adding more lubricant before continuing at a much slower pace. You gasp breathlessly when he connects to you fully.

_God, so b-big_. You think numbly.

Stan doesn’t move though his hands shake a little on your hipline. He’s allowing your body a moment to adjust. Who would’ve guessed he’d be so considerate as well?

“Still ok?” he huffs.

You nod weakly. “Keep…doing…”

A small smile comes to his mouth as he pulls out tenderly before pushing back in, his movements very deliberate so as not to hurt you. The gesture alone warms your heart. What kind of drunken one-night stand is so caring?

Apparently this one as Stan continues with the gentle pace, even leaning forward a little to whisper sweet words near your ears. You can’t tell if the hue of pink on his cheeks is from the alcohol or the restraint he’s obviously putting in to this.

The pain of the penetration dulls so you roll your hips against his. Encouraged by your participation Stan increases the pace of his thrusts, holding your legs a little higher to get more of an angle.

Stan’s breathing like he’s running a race and a line of sweat is starting to form on his forehead. You reach up, running your fingers across Stan’s forehead and into his hair. He smiles down at you, that roguish grin you’ve come to associate with him. It’s too much for your heart, you tangle your hands in his damp hair and pull him down fully upon yourself with a kiss.

Stan groans into the kiss, his hips taking a charging pace now as he’s so close to you. The added sensation of Stan’s pudgy stomach rubbing along your now harden cock is too good for words, the slight scratch of his hairy chest on your bare skin.

You dig your fingers into his sweat-slick back as he pounds into you with force now. Sharp gasps and pants tearing from your throat. “¡Mierda (fuck)!” you cry out as pleasure when his cock brushes against your sweet spot.

Stan must take your exclamation for pain as he begins to slow his thrusts. Growling slightly, you tighten your hold on him, “¡Cogerme duro (fuck me harder)!”

You’re uncertain if Stan understood your demand or if common sense kicked in, either way, he does as you say. He huffs out a chuckle as he ups his pace, going harder and faster. The bed is shaking, slamming against the wall with the force of it.

Heavy grunts and moans sound all throughout the room. You squeeze your eyes shut, losing yourself in the sensation of it, all of it. Being so close to another person after so long, the insistent pressure on your cock, the beautiful aria of ‘ah, ah, ahs’ Stan is making.

Your toes curl at the end of the bed as you feel your balls tighten and with a whine of his name you come, coating yours and Stan’s stomachs with your jizz.

Stan’s not far behind, as your body clenches around him in your release he moans. “Damn, so good, ah!” His come fills you warmly, he holds himself in you for a moment even after he’s done, trying to keep himself from crushing you it seems.

Dizzily, he manages to pull out and roll heavily to the side next to you.

Neither of you move, content to lay side by side with your legs dangling off the mattress as you lay horizontally instead of vertically on the bed, sweaty and deeply satisfied.

“That…you…damn…” Stan mutters weakly.

You hum in agreement, your eyes heavy with sleep, uncaring to the drying cum on your torso or that leaking from your backside.

Stan somehow manages to heave himself up and moves to lay on the bed correctly. You refuse to move however, so he pretty much drags you up to the pillows. You don’t know why he bothers throwing the blanket over the both of you, the room is still so hot from the sex.

But you don’t question him, instead cuddling up to his chest and dreamily running your fingers through his chest hairs. His arm loosely comes around you, holding you close to him. You smile when you feel light kisses to your temple but you don’t open your eyes.

The light to the room is still on but who cares. And after this night, Stan may pull away from you, he may even think you purposefully got him smashed to take advantage of him, but again, who cares? You brain is too tired and drunk to form worries. Right now, sleep.

-

Consciousness returns to you in a painful burning on your face. Groaning you throw a heavy arm over your eyes but even that results in pain.

_No. No. Don’t wanna wake._ You think weakly.

But the damage is done; you’re awake, no matter how tightly you close your eyes. Your muscles feel like lead, why can’t you just be dead?

You open your eyes beadily, not really able to take in more than the light of the sun peaking in through a crack in the curtains.

You blink.

_Curtains? Wait, where am I?_

Painfully, you turn your head and the action causes immediate throbbing in your brain. You groan again and close your eyes.

“Fmha shh, sss’ok, sleeeep,” a mumble sounds somewhere beside you.

Again you attempt to open your eyes. Next to you is Stan. He's obviously asleep and naked from what you can tell by the blanket pooling around his waist.

Your brain strings a small jumble of memory together. _Stan…oh right, his birthday. Tequila at the bar. Stumbling to his place in the dark. Kissing and…oh. **Oh!**_

You dig the heel of your palms into your eyes. “Ay no…” you mutter hoarsely.

Well, that’s just _fan_ -tastic!

Finally able to meet a decent person, someone you could call ‘friend’ even and now you’ve ruined it. Who knows what he’s going to say when he wakes up or even if he’ll trust you enough to come to the bar-

Your eyes open widely. “The bar!” you gasp.

Fear urges your body to move, despite the various pains it causes. You can’t remember the last time your body ached this much and the pain of the light and your throbbing head do nothing to help.

Stan snorts and lifts his head off the bed. “Huh- fwhat, whazz happenin’?” he grumbles, his eyes barely open.

“I must go!” you say as you wrestle on your shirt.

Stan lays back down. “S’too early, come back to bed.”

You nearly fall trying to put both legs in your pants at a time. “Can’t! The bar! _El Odio_ Stan! I must leave!”

Stan reaches out with both hands to you but doesn’t leave the bed. “Wait, wait. Don’t go-”

“Sorry, see you later!” you say hurriedly as you run out the door, barely closing it as you run with one shoe on and one still in your hand.

-

You make it to the bar before any of the member do, but only just, and when they arrive everyone takes turns teasing you for your disheveled appearance.

And you take it, because between the pounding hangover and the guilt of running out on Stan, you feel like you deserve it.

The day is uneventful for the most part, serving alcohol to thugs doesn’t take much brain power to do, though you think about calling up your mother and asking her to prepare a bowl of menudo for when you get off, this hangover is murder.

It isn’t until around four in the afternoon that your day gets interesting, when Stan enters the bar. As he comes in, you can’t help but wonder if you look as badly as he does.

His eyes blood shot and hair all a mess. You hadn’t dared looked at the mirror in your work station to find out.

Regardless of how tired and miserable he looks, Stan greets you with a smile.

You give a stiff nod in return, unsure what to expect after what happened. “Stan.” You say evenly.

A pause passes between the two of you. You busy yourself with cleaning glass as Stan seats himself on the stool in front of you.

Occasionally, you sneak a glance at him but every time you try to say something, your mind blanks. What do you say after last night?

He sighs heavily and the noise prompts you to look up, your mouth moving on its own accord.

“Look about last night-”

“Last night I-”

Both you and Stan pause as your voices overlap each other. Your eyes meet and Stan chuckles lightly.

“After you.” He says with a wave of his hand.

You clear your throat. “Um, well, I just saying…you not need to worry. Last night, I not trying to…trick you, or whatever.”

Stan blinks. “Trick me?”

You mess with the ends of your dish rag, avoiding his gaze. “You know, letting you drink so much that you would…be with me.”

“Oh. Well, uh, that’s good. Thanks fer the honesty.” Stan says blankly.

Now the room feels uncomfortable. That is what he was going to confront you on, right? That’s what anyone else would say; especially given it was you who brought out the alcohol. And that’s what evil gay men like you did right? Lured innocent men into your devious sin?

You roll your eyes at yourself. _I gotta stop listening to_ _abuela’s_ (grandma’s) _programs._

Stan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh, so yeah, I didn’t think that or anything, given that I kissed you first.”

The dish rag falls to the floor when he says that.

Is that how it happened? You strain to remember. Drinking, laughing, more drinking…motel room? No, wait, how _did_ it all start?

You whip back to look at Stan but he’s picking at his finger nails indifferently, not meeting your eyes. “I mean, probably the best birthday I’ve had in a long while too. Wouldn’t mind gettin’ together with you again sometime, if you’d be up for it.” He says nonchalantly.

Despite yourself, a smile sneaks up to your face. You try to play it cool, kicking the rag up from the floor and catching it in hand. “Oh…is that right?”

Stan coughs into his fist, resting his other hand on the bar top. “Yep. Wouldn’t hear any complaints on my end, if you think you’d be able to take being with me more than once.” He mumbles.

The smile morphs into an all-out grin as you set the rag on the table, inching your fingers closer to his. “Well,” you pause, lightly running your index finger over his knuckle. “I think, I can take whatever you dish.”

He glances side-ways at you, a grin matching your own on his face. “Yeah?”

You nod, leaning over the bar a little to get closer to him. “Yeah.”

He blinks and for a moment you’re able to wipe that smug look of his face with your proximity. The pool of his eyes is so much nicer a sight when he isn’t hammered and looks, surprised even.

“Cool.” He breaths as you lean in closer to him.

“Cool.” You repeat, excitement flaring in your chest as you feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

His lips look so pink and a little chapped, you can still smell tequila on his breath. As you get closer he starts to close his eyes, his lips pouting out, ready to kiss.

And suddenly you remember where you are. The bar. _El Odio_ ’s bar, where a member could walk in at any moment. Disappointed, you retreat back to the bar and start arranging the bottles, though the smile stays on your face.

Stan opens his eyes and blinks when your absences is felt. You wink and continue to mess with the drinks. “Not in the bar.”

At that Stan looks around. No one is there, but even still…

He scoffs in obvious annoyance and leans on the bar. “Fair enough I guess.”

You lightly rub his arm. “Care for a Bloody Mary? I hear they take some edge off hangover.”

Stan huffs, closing his eyes. “Why not.”

Feel a bit guilty, you let your hand linger on his arm. “And…maybe a little company, back at your place?”

Slowly, Stan opens an eye. “Depends, you gonna run away first thing again?”

You give his bicep a squeeze. “Only to open the bar. It’s my job. But, I think I can call my brother and ask for a sick day, just this once for tomorrow.”

That smug grin comes back to his face, making you smile as he looks at you squarely. “Deal.”

-

This thing you’ve started with Stan is both the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to you. It’s been going on for a little over a month now; you’re spending more time with him than anywhere else. Going to your parent’s home less and less.

It’s terrible because now your parents show more distaste with you than ever before and the members of the gang appear to know you’re with someone. None of them seem to know its Stan specifically so that’s a relief, but even still, the harassment as gotten that much worse from them.

Not to mention Stan is slowly making his way into the gang. He insists that it’ll never happen but you can see the signs. Miguel has been calling him into the bar for more than just business lately, sometimes just to share a drink or sometimes to join him at a party.

You and Stan both know he can’t flat out refuse Miguel’s request, that’s just begging for a quick death. Though Stan does manage talk his way out of going respectfully, there are those times where he simply cannot refuse. The name of the game is always ‘make Miguel happy or else’.

The parties are the worst. You can tell when Stan has been to one because he’s been using drugs or worse, he smells like sex. Though you know it’s sometimes unavoidable it still hurts. You tell Stan to be careful, that’s his walking a fine line but he just waves off your concerns.

Yes, sometimes this fling is truly awful.

But it’s also wonderful, because you’ve never felt so close to another person, so much…love. You don’t know if Stan loves you back but for you, the feeling is strong and exciting and terrifying and horrible and amazing and grand and…and more than you ever thought you’d get to experience in your life.

Your get togethers with Stan are not all sex (though there’s certainly no shortage of that), most nights you come to his motel and lay around talking.

Stan tells you about his trials in America, how his family turned him out and the various things he’s had to do merely to survive. You can empathize. If the bar hadn’t seen your usefulness in running their bar the very same would’ve been your fate, though you doubt you’d be able to make it work as well as Stan had, what with his many schemes to make money.

And you tell Stan what life is like as a gay man in this part of the country and the stand-offish nature that your family has in regards to you.

The both of you have your share of sad stories but also a few good ones mixed in. Stan has some fun stories about miraculous escapes he’s made from sticky situations and even you have some fond memories before your sexual orientation became the family focus.

Tonight he’s being especially talkative after a rowdy round in the bed.

You’re laying you head on his bare chest, listening to the rumble of his voice as you play with the hairs on his chest. Normally he gives very little detail on his family life, though he has mentioned a twin brother he was once close to.

At the moment he’s recounting times in their childhood fondly. It makes you smile to see him happy for a change. While he can be cheerful at times he usually has a bit of a sorrowful sort of feeling about him.

“-And he, haha, he held the mast up for me to nail down but, heh, a strong wind flared up and it knocked him on his ass. The mast rolled halfway down the shore before we caught it again!” he laughs and you join him in it.

“Haha, ahh, yeah. I guess it was kinda dumb to try working on it during the weather warning but Ford, he was so sure we could at least get that part done before it really hit.” He snickers then sighs. “Ford was great back in the day.”

His face sours as he slips a hand behind his head. “Well, till he let my dad kick me out. I dunno if he closed the curtain out of spite or fear or what but it…still hurts sometimes.”

You nod your head, touching his bare arm sympathetically. “I understand stupid brothers. Mine is the whole reason I’m stuck here. He made the deal with _El Odio_ and my service is part of their arrangement.”

Stan hums softly, his hand running up and down your back. “M’sorry. Yer real nice. Too nice ta be wrapped in stuff like that.”

“You are too.” You say against his flesh.

Stan scoffs loudly at that. “Right.”

“No really.” You lift yourself up to look into his eyes. “You…amazing. The kindness in your eyes, in your actions…you only do bad out of need.”

He blinks down at you, taken aback by your declaration. Then he shakes his head. “Nah. Maybe once I was but…I’ve done things, more than the petty thefts and shams I’ve told you about.”

You cup his cheek in one hand, holding his face to yours. “Your past does not define you. Your present does.” You say firmly.

You pray that the sincerity of your words is clear to him; you pray he can see it in your eyes, feel the intensity of how much he means to you. You want to tell him right there how much you love him but fear holds your tongue at bay.

Something passes over Stan’s eyes, an expression you can’t really place before he kisses you, hard. The arm you’re using to support yourself is weakening as he pushes into you so insistently. Expertly, he maneuvers you down to the mattress, his mouth laying siege to yours.

He kisses the breath right out of you; eagerly you tangle your hands in his hair, pulling him closer. Your noses bump together as the kisses get hotter.

Just as it seems round two of love making is about to commence Stan pulls away from your lips, only enough to speak.

“So I’ve been thinking,” He huffs, slightly breathless. “When I make enough to get out of here, wanna come with me? I was thinkin' of making a start in northern Venezuela.”

You chuckle lightly. “Sure, whenever that is.”

He grins against your neck. “Trust me, it’s gonna be sooner than you think. I’ve been makin’ deals with a few people behind Miguel’s back. He’s got a loose tongue when he drinks. I might be gettin’ a solid 30k here soon.”

You frown and push him away. “That not a funny Stan.”

He blinks. “S’not supposed ta be. I mean it.”

“You cannot be serious! You cannot be telling me you mean to betray _El Odio_!” you exclaim, pulling away from Stan completely.

Now he frowns. “Well yeah! What's the big deal? I told you I’m not joinin’ ‘em. Hell, I even told you I’m only with them for the money. Muling is chump change compared to what I’ll get if I tell their rivals where the gang stashes their-”

You leap from the bed, covering your ears with your hands. “No, no, no! ¡Cállate! (Be quiet/shut up) Do not speak anymore! Just, please…”

Stan gets up quickly, saying your name softly as he comes beside you with a comforting arm. But you are inconsolable. You push away from him, your body trembling as fear races through your veins.

You gather your cloths, putting them on hurriedly. "You do not understand Stan. You have not seen what they can do!”

Once you’re dressed you turn back to him imploringly. “Por favor, please, whatever it is you plan, do not do.”

A frown mars his handsome face as he slowly approaches you. He doesn’t say anything, only gives you a tight hug before he turns and makes his way to the bathroom.

Tears well in your eyes, you want to call out to him, try once more to convince him. But his actions echo with finality and so you leave.

-

In the days following your argument there is a tension between the two of you that was not there before. You still go to him at his place and he still comes to see you in the bar. There is still laughter and smiling and even intimacy but there’s just not as much joy as there once was.

Stan refuses to back down on his plans though you make a point to say ‘please’. He knows what you mean when you say it and he always ignores it, either by changing the subject or, on a bad day, asking you to leave.

You feel so trapped. You want to stand by him because you love him, with all your heart you do, but you know he’s wrong. You can practically see the dark clouds of tragedy looming over. You know his actions will get him killed and the sensible part of your brain tells you to get out now, to sever ties with him completely before he gets you killed along with him.

But you know you can’t.

Stan has too much of a hold on your heart. You simply love him too much and even though the worst is just around the bend you can’t leave him. Not now, not ever. He’s asking you to walk through fire and though all your mind shouts at you not to, your heart proves to be the moving force.

Whatever happens, you won’t leave him until death takes him from you.

Or you from him.

-

Its early morning when Stan comes in to see you. He looks ecstatic as he enters the bar and head towards you. You smile instantly at the sight of his happiness.

“Hola St- _mmpf_!” Stan cuts off your greeting with his lips as he lifts himself onto the bar to kiss you.

At first you’re so surprised and excited by his abruptness, you kiss him back, resting your hands over his but thankfully (sort of), some part of your brain remembers where you are and you push him backwards.

“Not in the bar!” you hiss.

Stan stumbles a little but manages to catch himself well enough, the grin never leaving his face. “Sorry.”

You sigh. “There are members in the bottom now-”

“You wanna go out with me tonight?” he asks over you, your words getting lost half way though.

You blink in surprise. “I…wha?”

He chuckles at your expression. “You. Me. Go out for once.”

The disbelief of his words is baffling. “Like…a date?” you ask dumbly.

At that he all-out laughs. “Yeah! Let’s go to a restaurant or a movie or something! Don’t you get tired of just meeting here or coming over to my place all the time?”

Heat blossoms in your cheeks. “Well, not really but, I suppose…why?”

Stan grins turns a bit mischievous. “I wanna take you out, show you off. Besides, tomorrow is the big day.”

Your eyes widen and the smile melts off your face. The big day. Tomorrow. Betraying _El Odio_ is a death wish and Stan has signed his for tomorrow.

He must see the fear in your eyes as he reaches out to you, saying your name patiently, the way one does to a child who’s about to throw a tantrum.

But you don’t let him get any closer, back away from the bar. “Get out Stan. Do not say any more. Not here, get out _now_.” You whisper, your eyes darting to the door you know there are several members behind.

Stan looks too, the door is unmoving. He returns his gaze to you. “Look, just come out with me tonight, we don’t have to talk about it or anything.”

You shake your head hurriedly, continuing to speak in soft tones. “No Stan. I cannot. Leave. You need to leave right now. Please.”

Now his eyes are saddened. He says your name pleadingly but you point to the door, again telling him to leave before he says something that will get you both killed.

And he does, though not before shooting you a few wounded looks. Even when he’s gone you can barely breathe. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.

Maybe a date would’ve been a good idea, seeing as you’ll never see him alive again after today. You bury your face in your hands, trying to stop the tears coming to your eyes.

_No, no. I can’t think that way. Maybe…maybe I’ll go over to his place after work. Try to talk some sense into him._ You think rationally, though you know in your heart he won’t listen.

Defeated, you rest your head on the bar and don’t look up even when the members emerge from the back room and taunt you. What’s the point? Their words can never hurt as much as this pain in your heart.

-

The day seems to drag on but at the same time it’s over so quickly. You’ve decided to go to Stan’s place and try once more to reason with him, beg him not to get himself killed.

As you’re cleaning up the bar and getting ready for lock up, however, someone enters.

It’s Raul, Miguel’s second. He’s a big man, with a mean, scarred face and a thick mustache. He wears the colors of the gang proudly on his jacket and approaches the bar with purpose.

Nervously, you set your dish rag aside and stand up straight. “Ho-ho-hola R-Raul.” You stammer.

He doesn’t acknowledge your greeting and instead makes his way to the end of the bar and enters in. You try to keep still but your body is shaking as he approaches your side.

The sneer on his face doesn’t waver even as he reaches for the gun you know is in his pocket. You close your eyes and start mumbling a pray under your breath, knowing you’re about to die, praying that Stan can get away or isn’t dead already.

You flinch and tighten your closed eyes when you feel the barrel of the gun against your temple.

“Call him.” Raul growls.

You slowly open your eyes. “I, que (what)?”

You whine as the gun suddenly strikes the side of your head. “¡Usted ha oído, pandejo (you heard me fucker)! Call your boyfriend!”

Trembling, you right yourself, gripping the side of you head. “O-ok, ok.” You grab the phone at the bottom of the bar and hastily punch in the number to Stan’s motel room.

As you stand upright Raul is back at your side, the gun once more pressing the tender side of your head.

You try to level your breathing, try to stay calm as Stan answer the phone.

“Y’ello?” he says casually.

“St-Stan!” you’re voice quivers unintentionally.

He says your name in alarm. “Are you ok?”

You clear your throat, mentally scolding yourself. “I- I am fine. I, uh…”

“Tell him you want to meet at the docks.” Raul snarls softly at your side.

You hesitate, planning out what you want to say and how to work Raul’s demand. “I just, rethinking the date you said. I love to go out with you. Can you meet me at the dock? We can plan from there.”

You can practically hear Stan’s smile on the other end of the phone. “Really? Y-yeah, that’d be just fine. I’ll meet you there in five.”

Panic grips at your heart. “Stan!” you say his name without thinking, your first instinct to tell him the truth but as soon as you speak Raul’s gun cocks next to your skull.

“Yeah? What is it?”

You pause.

If you warn Stan now he’ll hear the gun go off when Raul shoots and probably run to the bar. You’ll be dead and leading him to his death. If he goes to the docks, there might be a chance someone will see and Stan can escape or better still, he can hear your distress, recognize you’re being held at gun point and just not show up and skip town. You would probably be killed but at least he would live.

“…dress nice eh? I want to show you off too.” You say softly.

“Sure, you got it. See you in a few.” Stan says and the phone clicks.

Slowly you put the phone back on the receiver. Raul, nudge the gun against you head. “Let’s go.” He grumbles.

You do as he says in silence. He leads you to a car outside of the bar. There’s five men in it already but still you get in the back with them. Raul closes the door behind you then gets into the driver’s side.

As the car takes off the guys in the back are taunting you.

“Shoulda been smarter about your boyfriends maricon!” they laugh.

“O de lo contrario ese idiota debería haber sido más inteligentes acerca de sus acciones (Or else that idiot should have been smarter about their actions).”

More laughter ensues but you say nothing. Muted by the heartbreak, stilled by fear. Who knows if you’ll even leave this altercation alive! But if Stan could live…it’d be worth it.

The car stops at the edge of the docks and you’re forced out. The others in the back spread out and hide in the darkness, but Raul pulls you to the side, keeping you by the car.

He holds his gun to your back. “When he comes, call him to meet you _right_ \- _here_. We’ll be watching. If you try to warn him, we shoot you both. Comprender (understand)?”

You nod solemnly and he grunts before going to hide like the rest. The wind at your back makes you shiver. Maybe Stan won’t come, maybe he’ll get away. Maybe they won’t even bother to kill you in their haste to try to catch up with him.

All your hopes are shattered when Stan runs up to the other side of the dock. He calls your name, a smile on his face as he comes around.

He did dress well, given what he normally wears you’re surprised to see him in such a nice white button shirt, with a pressed collar and dress slacks. It aches to see him, he looks so handsome and to come to this. You glance slightly in the dark, hoping he’ll understand the gesture.

It doesn’t appear he does as he waves you over. “Come on, I found a nice place in the middle district, no one’ll even recognize us that far uptown.”

You stay frozen, still looking over to the dark.

“Tell him to come to you.” Raul growls from somewhere to your left.

Swallowing the lump in your throat you slowly raise your arm. “J-just a minute Stan. I…wh-why, I-I mean…there is something here that I want to show you first.”

He jogs towards you; time seems to slow as he gets closer. It breaks your heart to see just how much effort Stan put into looking nice, he even shaved! His long main of hair is combed back and a few buttons to his shirt are undone, showing just a little of his chest.

When he’s just a few feet from you, you can’t help yourself. You run forward and embrace him, putting everything you can into the hold as you whisper in his ear. “I love you. I am so sorry.”

No sooner have the words left your mouth did the attack begin. Raul grabs you from behind, ripping you away from Stan while three of his group comes up from the shadows, encircling Stan.

Though you see the surprise on his face when Raul pulls you away, that’s all you see of Stan as he is surrounded. You hear him swinging punches and fighting back, but as the rest join in, you know he’s outmatched.

Raul hauls you away from the fighting and throws you to the ground, leering down at you. “You twisted fuck, should’ve known better than to mess with that cabrón (dumbass). If you wanted to suck a dick so badly, all you had to do was ask.”

He unzips his fly and his erection seems to leap out before he grabs the hair on the back of your head and forces your face to his crotch.

You turn your head to the side to avoid it but the heat of it is practically stinging your face. His free hand fishes out his gun and you feel it on your forehead. “Hazlo maricon (do it faggot).”

You take a shallow breath and close your eyes before turning your head back to his cock, opening your mouth as you do so. You don’t need to see him to know the dark grin that is on his face.

Tears form at the corner of your eyes as he shoves his dick violently down your throat. You do your best to keep your throat relax but he keeps hitting the sensitive palate on the roof of your mouth, causing you to gag.

He takes no notice to your discomfort, groaning lowly as he keeps his hold on your head, bobbing it forcefully on his cock while thrusting his hips. You can’t breathe, it hurts so badly. You push your hands on his thighs, trying to get some relief from his brutality.

Raul growls at you to lower your hands as he takes your jaw with his other hand. He must’ve dropped the gun at some point. You think of trying to reach for it but the thought vanishes as he uses one hand to force your jaw open while the other bring you in closer, smushing your face against his pubes.

Behind your eyelids you see stars of pain; the horrible, choppy moist noises coming from his actions are making you sick. Surviving is now your focus, how can you survive the onslaught? Breathing has become completely impossible now.

Thankfully, God takes pity on you as he cums quickly. You choke because he won’t let you pull away from it so you try to swallow as much as you can.

The action is killing your abused throat but when you comply with his desire he lets you go. You gasp heavily, spitting out a little of the ejaculate. You don’t get much time to recover as he pulls you up to your feet after hastily putting himself back in his pants.

He holds your arms behind your back as he walks you over to where the rest have Stan on the ground. They seem to have tied him up and are still stomping him until you and Raul reach them. Beaten and bloody, Stan looks up with his not blackened eye when the beating stops.

At the sight of you Stan struggles against the binds on his arms and legs. “Let ‘im go!” he thunders, much to the amusement of the gang. “He didn’t have nothin’ ta do with it, it was all me!”

Raul sneers. “We know that. I just thought it’d be fitting for you to see your little whore one more time before we kill you.”

You fight against Raul’s hold on your arms, trying to get closer to Stan. “Lo siento (I’m sorry) Stan,” you say weakly, your throat burning from Raul’s deep throating you. “Te amo (I love you)- argh!”

The last chance you’ll get to try and let Stan know just how much he means to you is cut short when Raul knock you hard on the back of your head.

Stan roars with rage, working harder than ever to get free, but it’s just no use. The gang larks cruelly at his attempts.

Raul’s grip on your arms shifts as he seems to be reaching for something. Then he spins you around to face him and for a moment you’re afraid he’s going to force you to your knees again for more humiliation.

But what he does is worse. He has a knife in his free hand. “We can’t kill him anyways. Miguel said to be sure he lived, but he never said we couldn’t mark him for his treachery.”

Two more men come up to your side and hold you still as he brings the knife to your face. You vaguely hear Stan yell ‘No’ but only just as your own shrieks drowned him out. The abuse on your throat from early certainly dulls how loud you can scream because the agony you feel warrants more than the hoarse cries you make.

The warmth of your blood runs like a river over your shoulder and your chest. Just as you’re starting to feel dizzy, as though you may faint he’s finished writing the gang’s name on your face. You think for a moment it’s all over but then he spits on the wound. You give a soft whine as it stings. Stan is swearing up a storm from the ground but you can’t see him now, your eyes closed with pain, your head is spinning.

“Take la puta (the bitch) home.” Raul barks at the two holding you before nodding to the rest. “And you, pick up that hijo de puta (son of a bitch) and throw him in the trunk of the car. We gotta get rid of it anyways, might as well take out two burns with one stone.”

You’re led away by the two, leaning on them mostly as your legs quiver with fatigue and mercifully, they don’t bother to taunt you as they take you to another vehicle that’s parked at the other end of the docks.

“Are we gonna burn it with him inside it boss?” someone asks from behind you.

“No. I figure he came to us from the ocean. We should just return him back through it.” Raul responds.

And that’s all you hear before you’re forced into a separate vehicle. The two men don’t even look at you, and you’re very grateful for that. They don’t speak, not even when they reach your parent’s house.

You get out of the vehicle and walk to the door. Once you enter, your mother and grandmother are waiting.

The screams and cries at the sight of you don’t do much to rattle you. You feel so numb now, like nothing is real.

Your mother walks you to the kitchen and cleans out the wound on your face while you grandmother pulls out her rosary and prays alongside her.

The flurry of activity seems to stop almost as soon as it starts. You’re not sure how long it takes, but once you’re cleaned you mother leads you to your room and now you are lying in your bed, wearing the same shirt, the same shoes and pants.

You stare at the dark ceiling, trying to think or feel but nothing comes. You survived, that’s something right? But Stan…

_Stan…_

You remember his roguish grin, that lopsided smile when he was really happy, the crinkles on the sides of his face when he laughed. The booming sound of his laughter, the warmth of his hands, of his kiss…the gentle touches he’d placed on you.

Gone. Forever.

Silent tears roll down your cheek, irritating the wound but you can’t even bring yourself to wipe them away.

You wish they had let you die with him.

-

You open the bar at the crack of dawn, sighing a little to yourself as you enter. You go through the morning set up; putting all the chairs down, plugging in the video games and pinball machines, straightening up the pool area, leaving plenty of chalk for the sticks and so on.

Once the place is set you mosey back to behind the bar, tie an apron around yourself before pulling out your stool and sitting. You have long since removed the little mirror you used to keep at the back with the register.

With the bar set up you reach under the bar to retrieve your paper with the crosswords.

Now the day officially starts.

It’s been months since the American man you loved so dearly perished. You don’t say his name anymore. You can’t. Even thinking of it breaks you down to hysterics.

The sun is warm as it shines through the window. You enjoy the feel of it on your skin. Not much has changed from that day.

You open the bar, you handle _El Odio_ members and you still live with your parents. Although now, there really is no escape from them. You will never join their ranks yet still they own you.

Gently you run your fingertips over the scar on your right cheek. No one will ever accept you now. You can never leave their service. With their name itched into your flesh, you are truly trapped.

Sighing again you look back to your paper. Eleven across. The word is _salir_ (get away). You look back to the windows. Some days you wonder if that man ever made it out alive. If he managed to pull one of his amazing escapes like he mentioned he often did in America.

You chuckle humorlessly.

Though you’ll never know for sure, you’re pretty sure that the man you loved, is dead.

 

-End

**Bonus:** Stan’s escape!

“ ** _No!_** ” Stan screams from the ground as Raul turns a knife to the bartender. His voice had sounded so wounded already, the shrieking of his pain is more than Stan can bare.

He tries to force himself up but someone steps firmly on his back, keeping him still. Blood pools at the feet of the men, it makes Stan sick to his stomach to see it.

Anger bubbles in his chest, they’re gonna kill him anyways, he might as well say what he feels. “YOU _bastards_! Fuckin’ evil sons of bitches! He didn’t have any part of any of it! Fuck all of ya! I hope the cops find yer fuckin’ warehouse and all of you motherfuckers get shot the fuck up!” he bellows from the ground.

They all just hoot. Stan fights to push the boot on his back off of him but it’s no use. Bad enough the assholes cornered him with a surprise attack before beating the ever living shit out of him.

Stan looks up with his non-swollen eye and winces at the torn flesh on the bartender’s face. He’s so pale now, like he’s gonna pass out. Blood stains his shirt and his pants, his eyes are shut with his misery.

“Take la puta (the bitch) home.” Raul barks at the two holding him before nodding to the rest of the gang. “And you, pick up that hijo de puta (son of a bitch) and throw him in the trunk of the car. We gotta get rid of it anyways, might as well take out two burns with one stone.”

Stan watches the three men walk out of his line of sight. He wants to call out something to the bartender, something of comfort, but even he doesn’t know what to say in this moment so he remains silent.

“Are we gonna burn it with him inside it boss?” someone asks above him.

“No. I figure he came to us from the ocean. We should just return him back through it.” Raul responds.

Stan sneers to himself. _Well ain’t that poetic._

Abruptly, he’s lifted off the ground by two guys, one grabbing his bounded legs, the other hoisting up his back.

Panic takes the place of his rage as they walk over to a vehicle parked by the edge of the dock. He’s been in tight scrapes before but this is certainly the tightest.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_ The mantra races through his head as the two throw him into the trunk and slam it shut.

Surrounded by darkness, Stan begins to struggle more fiercely than ever. They’ve tied up his arms and legs well, too well for him to slip out of. He thrashes against the car, rocking backwards and forwards, head butting the roof of the trunk, kicking the back of the seats as hard as his binds will allow.

He can hear them laughing outside the car.

“We gonna push it in now?” someone asks eagerly.

Stan hears Raul chuckle. “Nah, let him suffer a bit. Vamos (come on), let’s get some food then we’ll push it into the ocean.”

The laughter increases before it slowly fades away. Stan continues to thrash around, working himself into a sweat yet accomplishing nothing.

As his energy depletes Stan lays still, the panic giving way to bitter acceptance.

_So this is how it ends huh? A set up. A fucking set up! How did I not see this?_ He thinks morosely.

Sighing, he closes his good eye. Everything fucking hurts. Between the beating and his attempts to free himself his muscles ache.

Stan always knew it would end someday, his risky way of life always did but somehow, he never imaged _this_ is how it would go. He was always one step ahead when it came to groups like _El Odio_ , easily made himself scarce when needed.

But it was different this time. This time he got too arrogant, he didn’t take the right precautions, blinded by his stupid emotions for the bartender.

The darkness gives way to Stan’s memories. That bartender was the first person in a long time to treat him like a person. To show him kindness and…well, love. Stan wasn’t sure he was even capable of loving another person like that anymore. So much has happened, he’s so damaged, why would anyone want to?

But that bartender; he must’ve seen something worthwhile in him. It was better than any drug, being with that man. He had a sort of sincerity to him Stan didn’t see often. The sorrow of his voice when he had whispered ‘I love you’ Stan hadn’t heard that in such a long time and he didn’t even get to respond to it.

He certainly did care for the other man but love? Hm. Maybe. Something like that anyways. Who knows? People like Stanley Pines don’t get ‘love’. They get one-nighters, maybe the occasional friend with benefits but love?

No.

Love was meant for good people. Lucky people who didn’t have to sell themselves and scheme just to make it through. He wasn’t good enough to be loved, not even by his own family…yet somehow, he was for that brief moment. And now it’s gone.

Growling to himself he kicks the back of the seat once more, pushing into it with all his strength more out of rage than to escape.

It surprises him when it gives way slightly.

Stan opens his eye in disbelief before giving it another hard kick. Again it rattles. A weak chuckle leaves his mouth as he maneuvers himself to face the back seat of the car.

_This must be one of those cars that can fold the back seat down._ He thinks numbly.

Lady Luck has once more decided to grace Stan Pines with her presence.

Now there’s a chance to get out, but he has to work quickly. His hands are still bound so he’ll have to open it with his mouth. Blindly, he feels around with his face for a weak part of the upholstery, biting around the edges.

He pulls back on the seat multiple times, only accomplishing to injure his mouth more so than it already is, until he feels it. The weak edge of the upholstery where the hook keeping the backseat upright is.

Normally, one has to be on the other side, the inside of the car to reach the release button for the hook to let the seat go down, but working as a shady car salesmen in a few states has it’s far advantages.

Stan physically can’t push the release button, but, if he chews through the connecting padding there’s a chance he can weaken the hold and force the seat down against the hook with his body weight.

_It’s a stretch, but I’ve bet on worse odds._ He thinks boldly before tearing into the scratchy fabric with his teeth.

The work is grueling, more than once he has to stop to spit out some blood. _Probably gonna lose a few teeth over this._ He thinks, but hey, what are a few teeth in comparison to his life?

His jaw is aching and his teeth feel ready to give way when finally, _finally_ , he feels the last of the upholstery give.

Stan huffs out a gruff snicker before repositioning himself again, this time to kicking form. The gang bound his feet together, but left his knees free. He kicks at the back of the seat, slamming his feet as one in repetition.

The air is feeling tighter and sweat is pooling in the crook of his neck.

_Come on, come **on**_! He thinks desperately.

His muscles begin to burn from the strain; he’s not sure how much longer he can keep putting up the effort. Just as he’s about to stop, the seat lunges headlong.

“HA!” he exclaims, using his legs to scoot forward.

Stan breathes deeply as he’s now in the backseat of the car. As he exits the trunk he sits up and turns his back to the door, groping around for the handle. A small smile comes to his face as he pulls it forward, though it’s immediately gone as he falls flat on his back outside of the car.

Groaning, Stan can’t even rub his throbbing head from the contact with the hard pier. He gives himself a quick shake. No time for this, they’ll be back any minute and he needs to scram fast.

With his feet still bound, he kicks the door shut from his back before rolling onto his front and doing his best to inch forward but with his arms tied tight behind his back there’s only so much wiggling he can do.

He glances around and is instantly grateful he did as he sees the glint of Raul’s knife a few feet from him. He does his best impression of a worm and manages to get himself in proximity of the utensil.

Stan grits his teeth as he twists his wrists within the confines in order to hold the knife in one hand. He bites his lower lip, struggling to get the edge to cut his binds. It takes more effort than he bargained for, but Stan sighs when he feels the ropes give way. With his hands free, he quickly cuts the ropes from his feet.

_Free._

The word is almost foreign but here he is, freed from the binds and freed from death. He quickly rushes back to the car and opens the back door.

_Can’t leave any evidence._ He thinks as he tosses the ropes in the back before lifting the seat back to where it belongs. It’s so much easier from this side of the vehicle.

He closes the car door and goes to return the knife where he’d gotten it when voices begin to echo in the distance.

Panicked, Stan drops the knife, hoping Raul won’t remember exactly where he’d left it and takes off in the opposite direction.

The sudden running does nothing for his weakened state. He doesn’t even want to think about how terrible he looks, bloodied and sweaty but he can’t afford to go back to the hotel, it’s too risky. His best option is to do what he did the first time and hitch a ride outta the country with nothing but the clothes on his back.

In Stan’s pockets he’s got roughly three hundred dollars and in his shoe about twenty. A stitch forms at his side. He’ll need to rest soon.

_No, no! I can’t stop. If they so much as think I’m not in that car this’ll be the first place they come!_

Gasping for air, his legs slow down against his will. There’s only so much abuse one can take before shutting down.

Stan rest a hand on some crates and closes his eye. How is he going to get out of here?

“Cuidado estúpido (careful stupid).” a voice shouts a few feet away.

Stan pushes off the crates and looks around the corner to see three guys loading crates into a cargo ship. He squints in the dark and reads that the ship is heading to Cuba. Stan knows that no travel boats or ferries head that way but a cargo boat is another matter entirely.

Knowing an opportunity when he sees one, Stan rushes forward and begins lifting crates, putting them onto the gurney to be put into the boat.

His muscles strain but he ignores the burn and keeps working. The three workers don’t seem to notice their number has increased as Stan does the job silently and keeps from getting to close to the others.

The darkness helps disguise him as he hides in plain sight. They never get a look at his face, though one does offer him thanks when Stan lifts the back end of a crate he nearly drops.

Just as the crates begin to thin in numbers Stan boards with one in hand, careful to keep his face from view and be discreet as he loads it into the ship. He sets the crate down behind a row of three others then sits down behind them and waits for the crew to finish.

Only when the loading door to the ship closes does Stan finally allow himself to relax. He closes his eye and before he knows it, he’s out like a light.

-

He’s not sure how long he slept or if he’d fallen unconscious. All he knows is there’s a sharp gasp that wakes him.

Stan jerks up at the noise and sees a man with a loading tram staring at him in alarm. Quickly he scrambles to his feet, biting back a groan of pain at the sudden movement. His body is still aching despite the rest he’d given it.

The man looks ready to yell so Stan grabs him and covers his mouth. “Cállate!” he hisses through his throbbing teeth.

The man’s eyes dart around wildly, Stan knows he has to keep the man quiet and on his side to escape.

“Shh! I have…uh, la moneda (money)!” he growls in the man’s ear.

He stops squirming at the mention of cash. Stan grins. “Si, si! Moneda! You…be quiet. Cállate, ok? And I, give to you. Understand?”

The man slowly nods his head and Stan lets him go. He reaches in his sock and pulls out the money.

The man’s eyes widen in greed as he swipes it from Stan’s hand.

Stan scoffs, people, they’re all alike. “More. If you, um, help. You know, uh, i-you-der. I-you-der, me… escaper.” He says in broke words.

The man blinks at him. “Ayudarle a escapar? (Help you escape)”

“Si! Si, for moneda!” Stan says, glad he was able to convey his meaning as he pulls more money from his pant pocket.

The man grins and takes the cash offer then gestures for Stan to get on the tram. Once he does so the stranger begins loading crates around him, effectively shielding from public viewing as he takes the platform out of the boat.

Stan tries to keep balance as the man moves. He thinks he hears someone offering to help unload the crates but the man refuses, insisting he can take it to the truck alone.

When he unloads enough for Stan to get off, Stan pulls another bill from his pocket. “Now. Let’s talk America.”

The man blinks. “América?”

Stan nods. “Si. What’s the fastest way to get there?”

The man frowns. “No entiendo (I don’t understand).”

Stan groans, rubbing his eyes with his forefingers. “Ok…um, cómo, er, llegar a- A-America, rápido? (how do get America quickly?)”

The man’s frown deepens. “¿Quieres decir que por una balsa? Ilegalmente? (You mean by a raft? Illegally?)”

Stan grunts, nodding again and pulling out another bill. The man’s frown softens as the money is out in front of him.

Hesitantly, he takes it from Stan and pockets it quickly while whispering. “Siempre hay personas que toman a las partes desconocidas de la playa. Tres millas de esa manera. (There are always people who take to the unknown parts of the beach. Three miles that way).”

Stan looks in the direction the man points and jerks his head in a quick nod. He didn’t understand everything he said but he did get ‘three miles’ and his best assumption was it would be in the direction the man points.

Whispering his thanks, Stan takes to a darkened path and leaves the docks with no one the wiser of his arrival.

-

Stan arrives at a haggard looking beach, there’s at least twenty people surrounding a motor boat. It’s not big enough for all these people, that much is clear.

Stan scans the hoard of people for the one in charge, and you can always tell who that is by the calm way the survey all their potential customers.

A man sticks out from them all at the end of the bay. He’s not that tall but he has an air of confidence about him and other men are coming to him with weaker postures.

_Bingo._

Stan makes his way to the imposing person, carefully keeping his pockets guarded so no one can pick pocket him. When he reaches the man he clears his throat with intention, over the people making their claims, pleading to get onboard.

The man glances over at Stan, who swiftly pulls out his largest bill, flashing it to the man once before hiding it in his palm.

A leer comes to the man’s face as he nods Stan forward. Money talks louder than any language can and Stan’s starting to run low, but if he can bluff his way into the boat that’s all it’ll take. They haggle a little; the man has surprisingly good English, and they settle on a solid $150 to get him into Florida.

It pains Stan almost as much as his beaten flesh to give up the cash, but what choice did he have? He pays the man and is one of the first to board the structure.

Stan struggles to stay awake as more people board. He can’t afford to sleep, not when all these strangers are also looking out for themselves. He wouldn’t put it past any of them to rob him in his sleep or worse. He needed to be on guard.

It’s nearly an hour before the man has everyone who can pay his price onboard and the boat pushes off the shore and into the night.

Stan lets out a breath he was holding. Soon, he’ll be back in the US and he can put this chapter of his life behind him.

A bit of sadness leaks into his mind. There’s one portion of this chapter he’d like to bookmark. That bartender. A part of him wonders where he’s at now and a worse part of him has a pretty good idea of where he is.

Maybe the guy would’ve been better off if Stan had never spoken to him. If he’d just kept his distance from the man, maybe things would be different. He would’ve gotten away with turning the tables on _El Odio_ for sure but more so, maybe the bartender could’ve kept his handsome face intact.

Maybe he could’ve kept his dignity. Maybe he even could’ve escaped the bar…maybe he could’ve found someone he could really love. Because clearly he made the wrong choice in Stan.

Stan frowns at his own reflection. _Why do I ruin everyone I care about? Maybe if I’d left him alone, he could’ve had a real life someday. And now…_

His gut clenches at the thought. Truly, he must be some sort of jinx. He never should’ve given the man more than a passing thought. Never should have gotten involved, he would’ve been better off.

Despite that knowledge, there’s a selfish part of Stan’s heart that is glad all this happened. Love, even in passing, is a gift he doesn’t receive often. And he’s always got his memories to look back on with bittersweet fondness. He doubts he’ll ever forget the tenderness of the man’s eyes, the soft sincerity in his words…if only he could have a love like that. Of course it was destined to end in tragedy. Stan is simply unlovable.

Stan jerks his head up suddenly, feeling someone glaring at him. He looks across the boat, locking eyes with a man sitting alone. He is looking at Stan with intensity.

A scowl comes to Stan’s face. “What’re you lookin’ at?!” he snarls, startling several people sitting within his vicinity.

The man doesn’t respond, just looks away quickly, though Stan can feel him sneaking glances from his downcast posture.

Growling lowly, Stan huddles into himself. Looks like he’ll have to stay awake the whole journey.

-

The boat crosses into international waters before Stan knows it and the motorist stops at a cove. So far the trip has been done in darkness; the motorist was great at avoiding the US who patrolled the waters and beacons.

In the cove there’s another man waiting with a raft to take them to shore. The boat stops beside the raft and the new rider holds out his hand for more payment. Grumbling under his breath, Stan fishes out his money and pays the man before he’s allowed to enter the raft.

_Great, less than half now._ He thinks bitterly. He’s made it on less before, but it would’ve been nice to have a little extra for food maybe.

With everyone re-boarded the raft pushes off the rocks. The motorist and the raft nod in acknowledgement of each other before parting ways.

The two seem to have a pretty good system. As the raft wafts into the night ocean, the motorist, who was so cautious earlier, is loud and obnoxious now as he goes in the opposite direction, drawing attention away from the raft.

Stan has to admire a good scam when he sees one. Any passing border patrol is going to go after him now, giving them the cover to get to shore.

Oddly enough, the raft to shore is a much longer ride and certainly more tense. Where there was soft chatting on the motor boat there is silence now. Women with children keep shushing even the smallest of noises and mouthing prayers for safety.

The ocean’s a big place and cops can’t expect to cover it all, maybe in the future it’s possible but for now their chances are pretty decent.

Luck is a fun thing. It loves and hates Stanley Pines with a passion. It’s either his fall back or his enemy. Getting set up, beat the fuck up and nearly killed was pretty bad luck. But, escaping said death, weaseling into transport three times and making it into the United States without a single cop busting the scene, not bad.

Overall, it was 60/40 day for luck.

When the raft gently breeches the shore many of the people exit the craft and seem unsure what to do.

But not Stan.

Almost before the raft touches the beach he’s getting out and wades his way out of the people and into the night.

He knows if anyone takes a good look at how beat up he is there will be questions. If only he knew where he was, then he’d be able to get to the Stanley-mobile and then, he’d be home free.

Stan sticks to the low-lit area as he exits the beach, keeping his eye out for a grungy gas station as he walks.

It isn’t long before he finds one and quickly enters. He keeps his head down and away from the clerk who seems uninterested in his presence and makes for the bathroom.

He turns on the light, unflinching to roaches that scatter as he heads to the mirror. He winces at the sight of himself.

Before he’d headed straight into his date with disaster, Stan thought he’d looked pretty presentable but now?

His white dress shirt was blotched with red stains all over it, torn in three places and his face had crusted dry blood sticking to his skin. His bad eye looks less swollen now; he tests it by opening it slightly.

Stan hisses at the attempt and keeps it shut. The dark ring around the eye looks worse than it probably is. And his hair, he’d spent some time trying to make it look nice, is now splayed out and also has areas of dried blood, making it seem worse than greasy.

Looking at his sorry state, it only makes Stan feel like more of an idiot. What a stupid dunce move on his part. He should’ve known, how could he have been so _blind_?!

He should know this by now, he never should’ve attempted to have a real relationship. Hadn’t the divorce taught him anything? How many times will it take before he realizes love just isn’t in the cards for him? That he’s just better off alone.

Scowling at his reflection, Stan turns on the water and starts to clean himself up. It’s not the best place for it, but it’s the only place he can do it with no questions asked.

It takes a good fifteen minutes to get his face and hair looking relatively normal, at least not like a bloody horror show.

Shake a little of the extra water off, Stan goes back into the rest of the store, a little less guarded now. He walks up the aisle with tourist crap, picking out the cheapest shirt and hoodie he can find and grabbing a bottle of water.

The sight of the water makes his mouth burn; he wants nothing more than to guzzle it now. But he can’t afford to make a scene, can’t afford to be picked up for petty theft yet, not until he’s got the car back and he can show ‘proof’ of identity.

It’s almost laughable to call it that, with how many times he’s changed who he is in the past four years alone.

When he gets to the counter he pulls a few bills from his pocket, avoiding the cashier’s eye as his items are priced.

Stan barely waits for the water to be scanned before he unscrews the lid and chugs as much as he can. His throat is so dry and the feeling of the liquid is refreshing. He knows he’s dehydrated but one bottle is all he can spare for now.

He pants a little as he’s drained half the bottle before taking the rest of his items. The cashier now looks intrigued but doesn’t question him.

Gruffly, Stan mutters. “How far to Boca Raton from here?”

The cashier eyes him once before returning their gaze to their cashier. “Bout an hour’s drive.”

Stan nods his thanks, slaps some bills on the counter top and leaves. He walks to the big dumpster out back and strips the reddened shirt from his body and tosses it. The cheesy tourist shirt fits well enough and though the weather isn’t cool, he puts on the hoodie to shield himself.

Changed and cleaned, Stan drinks more of his water, trying to slow down and savor it while he can. But the dehydration makes it harder to do.

As he drinks from the bottle Stan heads out to the roads. Time to hitch-hike.

-

It takes more than an hour to reach the town he was run out from, what felt like a lift time ago. Honestly, ever since that Ted Bundy shit getting a ride on the road is no easy task and more than a little risky but every once in a while a ‘Good Samaritan’ would come along lookin’ for a good deed to perform.

This particular do-gooder was a bit chatty, asking where he’s from, what brings him to Boca, does he need medical attention, etc. Stan pacifies the driver with brief answers and pretending to be asleep from most of the ride.

When they reach Boca Raton Stan is even able to talk the driver into dropping him off at the impound lot where he’s positive the Stanley-mobile is.

Stan walks the lot, his good eye feeling strained. It’s been so long. He really needs to rest again; his body is still in recovery. But it simply isn’t an option. Not until he’s out of Florida.

The sun is peaking into the sky, not quite morning but getting close. Stan is beginning to worry they’d scrapped his car instead. As he’s about to give up, he sees it, his red beauty sitting all alone in the corner of the lot.

Grinning, Stan grips the fence, preparing himself for a hell of a climb. It’s certainly not the first, nor the last time he’s scaled such a high wire but it is one of the more painful times he can recall. A lot of the initial damage from the beating has healed but bruises, scabs and stiffness are taking the place of open wounds and the added tension of climbing is doing nothing to help that.

A good deal of sweat has gathered on his brow as he finally makes it to the top. Stan pauses only a second to brush his hair backwards, out of his face before continuing his trek.

Getting his bad leg over the fence first is his best move, though he still nicks it on some barb. He pushes through the burn and climbs down. The wire rings sting his palms, going down is almost as hard, given that gravity seems intent to make him fall flat but he manages to get down more or less unscathed.

The smile returns to his face as he limps to the Stanley-mobile. He runs his hand lovingly over the hood. “You beautiful old piece of shit, am I glad ta see ya.” He whispers hoarsely.

First thing when he’s free, Stan swears he’s getting more water. But now he observes the damage on the car. Clearly they’d used a crowbar to force the door open but luckily Stan isn’t an idiot and the front and back of the car are essentially empty.

He reaches along the nose of the car and pulls a loose panel back, chuckling at the perfectly intact key that the suckers who took the Stanley-mobile were obviously unable to find.

Stan puts the panel back and goes to the trunk. When it flies up he works fast, pulling up the false bottom of the trunk. In the real trunk he has portable gas gallons, a box full of IDs, chains, ropes; anything he felt was essential last time he stocked it.

He scans the back, letting out a small ‘ha’ of victory when he spots the chain cutter. Pocketing a new ID, Stan puts the false trunk back in place and slams the trunk shut.

As he sits in the driver’s seat an odd warmth settles in his heart. Like hugging an old friend, it’s so good to have _something_ back at least.

Stan doesn’t linger on the feeling long. The car’s got a little over half a tank. That should be enough to get him out of Boca at least, and then he can stop in a more secluded area, fill up on one of the extra tanks then gun it out of the state for good.

This reminds him to pull down the visor on his side and cross Florida of his map. He stops in front of the entrance gate, taking the cutter with him. It’s a quick get-away, cutting the chain locking the place up, pushing the gate open and that’s all there is to it.

Stan drives cautiously at first, not wanting to draw any undue attention to himself. It’ll be at the very least an hour before a worker come in to survey the damage done, no need to be tailing it out just yet.

As he heads out of the city limits and onto the highway Stan rolls down the window, letting out a shout of victory as he manages once again to make his way in a harsh world where the odds are stacked against him.

Sure, the full brunt of things hasn’t really sunk in yet, that probably won’t happen until he tries to sleep at night, that’s when all the bad stuff comes back. For now, the high of success takes precedent.

If there’s one thing Stanley Pines knows for sure, is that the only way to make it through the bad is to celebrate the little triumphs when you get them.

-

Stan sighs, settling down contentedly on a bed for the first time in weeks. It was a tough ride a few times, but he’s finally made it.

Out of Florida and into a hotel in at town called Bainbridge in Georgia. New identity and new place to start over.

Time will come to make money but for now, Stan rests his body. He needs to be in top shape to sell shit to suckers.

Just as he’s begun to settle in however, a phone call comes in, proving once more that there really is no rest for the wicked.

Stan answers the call casually when it comes in, laying in his bed with a hand behind his head. “Andrew speakin’.”

“Andrew huh? Nice new name.” the other voice rasps.

Stan bolts upright. “Rico?” his eyes narrow and he quickly locks the hotel room door. “How’d you know I was here? How’d you get this number?” he hisses into the phone.

Rico chuckles lowly on the other end. “I have my sources. _El Odio_ thinks you’re dead Stan, you’re lucky I found you before they did.”

A heavy sigh leave Stan feeling defeated. “Wha’da ya want?”

“What everyone wants gringo; you pay me and I’ll be sure your death is the last anyone hears about you.” He says simply.

Stan walks over to the drawn curtains and sneaks a peak out. “How will I get the cash to you?”

Rico’s end of the phone hitches a little but Stan hears him say, “I got some guys in the states, they’ll find you.”

“When do you want your first payment? How much are we talkin?” Stan sneers.

Again Rico laughs. “That’s what they liked about you Stan! So quick to the point, never one for the tonterías (bullshit).”

“You and I know there’s no point in dickin’ around. Just tell me how much ya want n’ when ya want it.” Stan growls.

“Well, seeing as you just made it back and probably need a week or so to get back on your feet, I’d say, $500 by the end of next week.”

Stan breathes in sharply. “…Ok. Where’s the drop?”

“Don’t you worry. As I said, my guys will find you and collect. You just have the money ready at the end of the week.”

Stan wraps a finger anxiously around the telephone wire. “Alright.” He says quickly, moving to hang it up.

“And Stan, I mean it. They will find you. No matter where you go, who you pretend to be, they _will_ find you.” Rico says softly, menacingly, right before the line goes dead.

Stan doesn’t move for a while, the phone loosely hanging in his hand as sweat pours out of him.

Guess there really is no such thing as freedom.

Not for Stanley Pines anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> Wheee~ew! That took…so much longer than I intended. That was…a lot. I hope you like it though, I really put a lot of effort and research into writing it. I really do hope you like it, I think it’s my personal favorite that I’ve written so far. My next fic will be a lot more lighthearted after this angst bomb! :)


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